


Around the world in 80 pins - Chapter 1

by CinnamonSpoonMoonBuns (defunced), defunced



Series: Around the world in 80 pins [1]
Category: Frankie - Fandom
Genre: F/F, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:08:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23844976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defunced/pseuds/CinnamonSpoonMoonBuns, https://archiveofourown.org/users/defunced/pseuds/defunced
Series: Around the world in 80 pins [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1718242





	1. Chapter 1

It’s been the best of times, it’s about to be the worst of times.  
It’s early morning in the library, the sun’s first rays are just creeping in through the half covered window, and something isn’t as it should be. Good times have been had, and clearly the participants have been both expert and determined. Emma is lying across a couch, snoring like a fog horn, yet somehow managing to make not quite wearing a towel look elegant. Frankie hasn’t even made it that far, and is sprawled naked across the middle of the room. However, when the brain finally gave in and called it a day, the liver stepped up and has been working overtime ever since. The first rays of the sun, peaking in past the curtain, have had their effect and she stirs.  
“uh”  
Consciousness trickles in, in little rivulets, slowly running together to form a larger whole. Thoughts start to form.  
“why does my mouth taste”  
“this dog is wonderfully warm”  
The dog in question is a large and aged great dane. It too, is sleeping contentedly on its side in the middle of the library floor. The tag on its collar suggests quite strongly that its rightful home is somewhere else.  
“I like this dog, its soft and warm and isn’t washing back and forth like the floor”  
Frankie lies for a little longer, then slowly raises her head. The library is a mess, books are everywhere but on the shelves, scattered haphazardly around the room, looking to all the world as though Peeves has been in.  
“why is my face . . , sticky”  
Frankie slowly gets to her feet, and catches sight of herself in the mirror, there’s lipstick everywhere. Looking around its clear that Emma too is covered in perfect red incriminating lip prints. Someone has turned on a fire hose of affection and showered everyone in the room, including, after a brief examination, the dog.  
A tentative step forward causes the destroyed remains of a tube of lipstick to go shooting out from underfoot. It spins away across the room, only to be brought up short with a clatter by an empty bottle of Buckfast.  
At this Emma murmurs and rolls over, sending a waterfall of copper hair cascading down the couch to form contrasting pools over a pile of teal books. Frankie bends over slowly, trying not to fall off the floor, and picks up the empty bottle. As she straitens up she catches a whiff, and a wave of nausea crashes over her, however, it simply isn’t done to projectile vomit it a library. Standing perfectly still she drops the bottle and, summoning what little willpower she can muster, pauses. Once the danger of exciting retrogastrics has passed, Frankie looks around room. Her eye is drawn to a globe lying on its side on the coffee table. There’s line of pins stuck in it, forming a wobbly and lopsided circuit all the way around. Whoever put them in was clearly not going to let small trifles, like not having any drawing pins, get in her way. The globe sits there with its ring of safety pins sticking in at weird angles looking like Saturn during its punk phase. Frankie slowly, and with great care, walks over to the coffee table and picks it up. She turns it this way and that, trying to work out what rhyme or reason caused the placement of the pins. While examining the globe Frankie sinks to the floor in front of the coffee table. Looking around for a safe place to put this monument to misplaced creativity Frankie realises that the globe had been sitting on an open book. Putting the globe on the floor, she reaches forward and finds a copy of Around the World in Eighty Days, in the background a laptop is showing an inbox full of tickets for two.


	2. Chapter 2

Kitty

Frankie crawled over to the laptop. Her eyes widened.  
"Oh. Oh no."  
Emma roused from the dog cuddle puddle. "Oh no, what?" she asked groggily, one eye still closed. Wrestling half the towel out from under the dog's body, Emma stumbled to the coffee table for her phone and opened Google Maps. After a moment, "... Why are we in walthamstow public library?"  
Frankie looked up sharply. "Walthamstow public library" she muttered, and went back to the laptop, tapping away. The shock may have cleared away some of her sleepiness, but her nausea was still in full effect, and she struggled against the uncomfortable prickly heat of her skin, and the desperate need to vom on the keyboard.  
Meanwhile Emma rewrapped the towel around herself, and padded off in search of the bathroom, lethargically followed by the big brown dog.  
When Emma returned, she found Frankie in a havoc of activity, wearing what looked like a quilt, toga-style, tied at the waist with a crumpled banner, on which you could just make out a picture of an astronaut and the phrase 'reading is out of this world!' She was rushing from one corner to another, stuffing apparently random objects into a large book bag; three teal books, a stapler, a due-date stamp, the globe, and her trusty laptop.  
Upon seeing Emma's bewildered frame near the door, Frankie grabbed her by the shoulders and said, with all the sobriety she could muster, "You're going to have to trust me. We need to go. Now."  
Grabbing Emma's hand, she led them out of the library on their bare feet, followed by their sage canine companion. And as they slid into a waiting Uber and hurtled away, the quiet peaceful sounds of the small town returned, broken only by the distant chop of a helicopter, nearing.


	3. Chapter 3

Lis

Emma turned to Frankie, who was bent over, her head in her hands. Their Uber driver’s cavalier attitude to road safety was bringing her nausea back with returned vigour. Emma noticed a number scrawled on the back of Frankie’s neck in what looked like eyeliner.  
“So”  
Frankie looked up, grim faced. Seeing Frankie’s pained expression, Emma softened asking “So where are we going?”  
“Stansted Airport. I’ll tell you the rest once we get there - do you still trust me?”  
“Completely. But what’ll we do with him?” Emma gestured to the great dane who was nudging her thigh for attention.  
“Bringing him wasn’t part of the plan… But, after last night - well I think it can work” said Frankie, to herself as much as Emma. The colour was returning slowly to her cheeks and she bit her lips concentrating. Catching herself staring, Emma quickly turned away to look out at the sun rising over the fields outside North London.  
Emma, Frankie and the dog arrived at Stansted still clad in towel and toga. Emma took Frankie’s hand and smiled, her heart swelling at the sight of Frankie lit by the morning sun. Frankie smiled back and reached up to tuck a stray hair behind Emma’s ear before walking them into the airport.  
Straight into the WH Smiths in the entrance, Frankie headed for the classics section and started flicking through copies of Around the World in 80 Days. On the 7th book she let a deep breathe out - shoulders heaving. She turned to Emma and smirked whilst taking two boarding passes and a small silver key out of the book. "Right then" she said, and strode off.


	4. Chapter 4

Gordon  
Dawn crept quietly through the village, its fingers gently exploring each nook, each alleyway, finding old stone to brighten, and old glass to reflect upon. The birds were singing a welcome song as the two women left their respective abodes for the night to meet in the square. Stepping out of the church, Frankie was ready for the morning, adorned in a fine collection of clothes taken from the slumbering villagers who remained in the church after the all night session. The tweed jacket and jaunty cap felt appropriate for such a rural setting. Frankie's ruddy cheeks met the cool nip of air with a smile as she saw her copper haired companion exit from the chocolaterie, and while Emma's dress was filthy with the stains of excess, her face was clean and pure.  
The two met, and clasped hands. "Well?" asked Emma, "What happened?"  
Frankie explained as quickly as she could, trying to remember details, but lost in Emma's eyes. The church had been full for an unexpected midnight mass when Frankie walked in, taking each step up the aisle slowly in rhythm to a beat only she could hear. The village priest was shocked to silence as Frankie took over the sermon. She pulled a large teal book from a hidden place. This was no normal book of soothing magic, no collection of words that would relax and calm. This was Frankie's secret tome, only to be read after dark. And read she did - weaving together sentences of carnal lust, of haptic pleasure and joy, and as her lips and tongue and breath worked their magic, the crowd were mesmerised. And then, unbidden, they started to dance a forbidden dance, puppets to Frankie's will they shed their clothing and their inhibitions. Beasts with many backs rolled through the pews. In the fleshy pit of decadence Frankie searched the discarded clothing...but in vain...the labyrinth of sweaty bodies, the love maze that she had created, was for nought.  
"So all I have to show for my night is this excellent hat.", concluded Frankie. "How about you, my darling of a hundred summers and keeper of my winter heart?"  
Emma relayed her tale quickly as well. She at least had a lead on where to look for the secrete necklace that was supposed to be in this village. The clues that had led the adventurers to this isolated part of France were convoluted, but they were sure that this was the place, and Emma had quickly noticed the Magic Shop in the square. Oh, it called itself a Chocolaterie, but it wasn't fooling anyone. It was serving hot chocolates late last night, and Emma entered with the goal of information finding, but was quickly distracted by the young woman who was serving. Dark and wild, the youthful woman clearly had a past of the sort that would surely relate to the current round-the-world endeavour. Emma struck up a gentle conversation with the woman, talking of this and that, explaining that she was visiting from afar on a treasure hunt of sorts. "I'm searching for a lost soul, and we have is a Map of the Soul made up of safety pins and flight tickets". The women behind the counter lit up at news of this grand adventure, and spoke deep in the night. "I have so much advice for you Emma, in this journey to find the lost soul. It will be hard, and you will be tested. Remember your companion, for her love for you will be the Wings that carry your to your goal. If you love her, and love yourself, then throughout your quest you will always wake up to the most beautiful moment in life. I do not know of this magical necklace you seek, but I can give you many many chocolates to eat on the way". They made sweet chocolates through the night, tasting each other as the chocolate melted on their bodies....  
"Well, maybe the next destination will bring us better luck, " said Frankie, her thoughts still on the silver key that had started this mystery. "Now where is that delightful mutt..."  
Just then, the great dane walked into the square, leading an old man. The man exuded a gentle a kind nature, and made his way slowly to the adventuring ladies. "Oh hello there", he said, "I expect this fella is yours. He's such a good dog and he's kept me good company through the night. It can get lonely here, but with a friend like this....The priest says dogs don't have souls, but we know better don't we." and he smiled.  
The pair engaged the old man in pleasant conversation for a while, until it was time to leave. Just before turning away he held out a small collar. "Here. Take it. I found this a while ago and it reminded me of Charlie, my old faithful friend. But I think somehow it belongs to you..."  
Emma took the collar with amazement. "This isn't a collar for dogs, this was clearly designed in Italy for human use!"  
"Let me try", said Frankie and quickly clipped the collar around her neck. It was a little too tight and choked slightly. After a moment she reluctantly took it off. "I think we need to find the owner of this collar Emma. I think we have our next clue!"


	5. Chapter 5

Frankie  
The bus that carried them out of the village was battered and dusty, the fraying fabric of its seats bleached by decades of Provencal sun. On one side of the road the vineyards stretched into the distance, their crooked rows marking out the contours of the undulating landscape. The gnarled shapes of the vines looked like lines of writing in some alien language, the soft white dust thrown up by their tyres turning everything blur-edged and golden.

‘I don’t think we’re in Walthamstow anymore, Toto,’ Emma told the Great Dane in a mock whisper, scratching behind his ears. Frankie laughed, though she couldn’t entirely suppress a shiver. The skin on the back of her neck prickled as she felt the number change. She had no idea what it read now; in the early days she’d kept scrupulous track, marking it down in the teal book every time she felt the total drop, but she’d given up after she met Emma. It hadn’t seemed important anymore.

The golden afternoon light touched the edge of Emma’s hair to a glowing filament as she gazed across the endless, winding landscape. She was twirling the silver key absently between her fingertips; her peach nail polish was chipped, the tiny bear sticker on her fourth fingernail looking distinctly disreputable now with one ear missing. She looked up and smiled as Frankie took her hand, winding their fingers together.

‘So are you going to tell me what this opens? Or was this all just an excuse to drag me off on a romantic French vineyard tour?’

Frankie hesitated. ‘I—it’s not quite that easy.’ She sighed. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to tell you, love, but it might not be—’

Emma gave her hand a quick squeeze, leaning her head into Frankie’s shoulder. ‘It’s ok. I was only teasing, mostly. I trust you.’ She looked down again at the key, her eyes narrowing a little. ‘It’s funny, though – I swear I’ve seen something like this before somewhere. There’s just something about it that I—’

She broke off, stiffening as she glanced up over Frankie’s shoulder through the window on the other side of the bus.

‘Stop! Stop here! Arrêtez-vous, s'il vous plait, monsieur! Please!’

A white flower of dust bloomed into the air as the ancient bus creaked to a halt. Emma was out almost before the doors were fully open, scrambling over the seats, the dog barking raucously in her wake. She was already off the road by the time Frankie could follow her, cramming the tweed cap backwards onto her head so that its peak hid the nape of her neck.

‘Ems, what…?’

‘There! Look! Do you see? Can you HEAR them?’

In the centre of the field in front of them stood an old farmhouse, long abandoned, an elder tree sprouting extravagantly from the ruined first floor and its empty windows staring blankly at the sky. Around it the vines stretched on every side – but instead of winding in neat parallel rows, here they fanned outward like the rays of a star, twisting lines converging on the single spot where the farmhouse stood; the spot towards which Emma, the ragged tails of her dress flying, was running as though she knew the place by heart.


	6. Chapter 6

Zach

  
Emma turned round with a finger to her lips, preemptively cutting short Frankie’s inevitable squeals as she caught up and crouched by her in the doorway.

“Now Lady Freya, the important thing to consider is that crystals are essential for channelling.”

Frankie peeked round. Broken rays of dusty sunlight seeped into the farmhouse, winding their way through the leaves and rafters. Dodging around them was a spritely lady, almost dancing round her chalk circle and pile of assorted trinkets, her cotton dress and thin grey hair trailing her like a moving mist.

“But, like likes like, so a solid gemstone isn’t an ideal medium”, she lectured the cat, who somehow gave an air of attentive listening whilst also exploring its own anus, “ and THAT is why our family uses chocolate. It is both crystalline and organic, helping us establish a crystal clear bond. Pun fully intended”.

Lady Freya had clearly heard this speech countless times.

Emma and Frankie gazed on as the woman librated a cocoa figure from its cast. With a feverous whispered chant, the woman got to work:

To chocolate come and chocolate go,  
Your spirit to this shaped cocoa,  
To chocolate come and chocolate go,  
Your spirit to this shaped cocoa,

Watched by our dispersed audience of three (plus disinterested cat), the tiny figure’s features sharpened. The nose gained a proud curve, the toes gave a curl to caress the floorboard’s grains.

“Hello baby dear, good to see you again” the woman exclaimed. She gave her boneless neck a crack and her shoulder a fluidic roll.

“Wait a hot necro minute, are these raisins? You know I detest raisins! You’re lucky I’m only knee-high else I’d smack your bum for this.”

“Hi mum”, she greeted, giving her best daughterly sigh, “I know you don’t like them, but remember you said your skin felt weird last time? I thought the raisins would help reflect the…”

“Don’t you dare say it”

“...wrinkles”

Mother and daughter sat quietly, enjoying the chance to share the same spiritual plane for a short while.

“Let’s come to the gossip later”, said the chocolate figure, “tell me why you’re so distracted”.

“Well, I just got a strange message from your granddaughter, apparently a fiery woman came into her chocolate shop last night.”


	7. Chapter 7

Malcolm

Emma extracted herself from the jumble of limbs comprising of Frankie, the air hostess and assistant pilots. Those in the bed sleepily readjusted despite the first beams of jubilant sunlight clearing the frosted alpine range and sneaking through their cabin windows. Emma reclined in her executive chair whilst Frankie slept on - marvelling at the extraordinary life one has when Frankie is involved. She had a way with most people - they simply couldn’t resist her ‘suggestions’ and Frankie’s verbal magic had often secured them the best of everything and everyone - these first class plane tickets and company as prime examples.  
Emma had her own skills as well of course. She would often see the small connections that other people called foreshadowing or prophesising, their mouths agape. Emma simply recognised it as intuition. Her hair could also take the smallest glimmer of light and reflect it back one -hundred-fold, brightening a space with glorious hues of gold and copper. It did so now as the plane turned a little southward in a gentle arc.  
She sat there, reflecting on the last week in particular. She lazily draped her hand to Bertrand the Great Dane’s head - for they had recently discovered his name. He was curled up on the floor in a mess of food trays and empty champagne bottles.

They had stayed with the daughter and chocolate mother for several days. On first introduction they appeared to have been expecting them. The distracted air the daughter had shown was noticing that guests were arriving, and surprise at their perfect timing to witness the ceremony.  
Long discussions followed on the very nature of things and the best way to make a chocolate mousse. Topics such as the meaning of chance and what age really teaches us were explored during afternoon walks through the valley, the dog and cat following in their wake. The maternal figure of the chocolate homunculus had been a particularly rich fount of knowledge and had instinctively known the name of their canine companion. He seemed comfortable with the situation.  
This several-day séance had culminated in the ceremonial cracking of the chocolate soul jar. She had insisted after all, as the only way to share these magics for their onward journey. Otherwise it would have simply faded before another dawn had passed. That same afternoon, small packages of the darkest chocolate secure in their bags, they had caught a bus, threading through the vineyards on its way to a nearby city. It hadn’t taken long to convince the driver that their need was worthwhile, and that the several mile detour to the airport was ‘only a tiny inconvenience’.

Emma sat in the burgeoning glow from that same dawn and continued to scratch behind Bertrand’s ears.  
Frankie stirred some time later as the spidery text on the nape of her neck changed again. Not that she knew, but it read ‘6’ today. She fluttered her eyes open and Emma beamed at her.  
“Morning, sleepyhead!”  
Emma looked very pleased about something, and it only accentuated her resplendent lounging, bathed in golden sunlight as she was. It was some time before Frankie responded verbally. “Where are we headed today?” It was often this way - Emma somehow knew the correct destination when they arrived, and Frankie somehow managed to arrange how they got there.

An hour later they were in a taxi, winding through the market district of an ancient city with Bertrand stretched across both of their legs. Their view was rich with gardens, statues and fountains, with the facade of a great coliseum just visible in the distance.  
Stepping out of the taxi, Frankie felt a slight shiver and looked about quickly, feeling like she had just missed something out of the corner of her eye, possibly from a nearby alley? Or that rooftop? Behind that stall?  
Emma noticed her unease, asking “what is it love?”  
Less certainly than Emma was accustomed to, Frankie responsed, “nothing - I think. Let’s carry onwards.”

Their walk brought them through the market, tasting this and that before settling on a standing breakfast of pastries and espresso. The sensation of being watched visited Frankie a second time. Bertrand gave a single, booming bark that caused passers-by to jump. That was enough for Frankie, grabbing Emma’s hand and starting to walk briskly out of the market. They had learned to trust the instincts and senses of their newest companion, which apparently aligned with the uneasy feeling in Frankie’s stomach.  
A minute later another shadow passed overhead and Frankie broke into a run, dragging the other two by hand and lead. A left, a right and two more lefts brought them through a darkened archway, only to be met by the pungent smell of dyes and ammonia. A vast number of enormous vats below the level of the path were crisscrossed with wooden gangways. They appeared to be in a traditional tannery.  
A silhouette dropped from the top of the archway behind them and said in a deep, ringing voice, “è abbastanza, fermati qui!”  
While none of them spoke this language, the meaning behind the command could not have been plainer. As they slowly began to back away from the figure it held up its hands in a placating gesture.  
Bertrand, distressed by approaching figure, scrabbled backwards. He wasn’t paying attention to where he was going and his back paws lost purchase on the slippery edge of the nearest vat - a potent, plum-coloured liquid stewing within. His paws couldn’t get a grip on the slick rim and he fell in with a splash. He did well to keep his head above the noxious mixture while Frankie and Emma cried out and dropped to their knees, struggling to pull him out and dying their own arms up to the elbows in the process. The end of Emma’s hair also dipped into the dark purple liquid, giving the tips of her hair a darkened tone.

The figure stepped forward and noticed the marking on Frankie’s neck.  
He said in broken English, “A number 6 today? Good, that will help our purposes.”

The two women turned their heads in renewed alarm and were met with the sight of a short man with a neatly trimmed black moustache. He was of likely middle-eastern descent and dressed in dark, practical, but finely-made clothes. He had an air of pomp and circumstance, a formality that suggested the life of a courtier when he wasn’t busy chasing people through shadows and across rooftops. Despite the urgent worry for Bertrand, both Frankie and Emma noticed his exquisite knee-high leather boots of deepest maroon, a handsome coat of arms with a white swan embossed on each ankle.

Removing pristine white gloves and buttoning up a silk sleeve he leant in, “I can help, please!” and he bent over to help pull the dog out of the vat. Three managed where two had not and Bertrand was safely returned to solid ground.  
As the duo turned to face the newcomer, he bowed. They noticed that he had somehow avoided all trace of the dye in the effort of extracting Bertrand and had pulled a pristine handkerchief out with a flourish to accentuate his bow.


	8. Chapter 8

Place holder


	9. Chapter 9

Michael 

Frankie, Emma and the dog were heading for Italy. After the events of last night, everyone was tired, and a little overstimulated. Frankie and Emma spent the day snuggled up on top of each other, watching the scenery slowly change out the window, feeling each others slow regular breathing, saying little but being deeply comfortable in the silence, occasionally slipping one and other morsels of chocolate. Bertrand rode with them, huge head parked on the seat next to them, receiving pats, strokes and slow scritching behind the ears. 

They weren’t heading for Milano, but a much smaller town in the mountains to the south. Searching for a man, or possibly, probably, his descendants. Maybe they could find some answers, maybe it would be easy this time, hopefully Frankie wouldn’t have to desecrate another church.

Toward the end of the journey the dog started to get restless. Its calm demeanour and sage attitude made it an easy animal to be around, despite its enormous size, but as the hours passed it was clearly feeling cramped. The dog was over 4 feet tall at the shoulder and must have weighed at least a 150kg, making it poorly suited to vehicular travel. In defiance of its obvious age, under its slightly dilapidated exterior there were still broad bands of muscle and a mind that was sharp and inquisitive. They’d found that once it ran out of things to do and places to sniff, it liked to drape itself over someone and gently demand affection.

They arrived in Urbino late, and went straight their AirBnb. Urbino had long ago been at the centre of the European renaissance, and much secret and ancient knowledge had been accumulated there before the fall to the Habsburgs. Emma suspected that some of this knowledge might still be there, hiding in a forgotten corner of the world for over half a millennia.   
Emma paused, food in one hand, wine in the other.  
“How are we going to do this”  
Frankie turned to look directly at Emma  
“Well, we’re going to have to drink the whole bottle, the corks in bits now”  
Emma smiled and held out a half empty glass, Frankie topped her up  
“But I mean how shall we find it”  
“I was thinking we could pretend to be scouting for a history programme for the BBC”  
And so the girls went about town pretending to be working on a TV programme. They were seen in all the right places, asking questions, gesticulating, and wearing serious faces while talking about “The Light”. This was mostly so Frankie could get into the ancient university library and read some early proto romance novels, to pass the time. The real work was happening slowly, carefully, subtly in the spaces in between. In the coffee shops, foyers, lanes and watering holes of the town. Letting slip just enough information that those in the know would know, and those who didn’t, wouldn’t. The girls were slowly getting to know the town, and the town was collectively sizing them up. 

A very pleasant week passed, in which Frankie was only vaguely aware of the days, so wrapped in her reading was she, and Emma too was absorbed by the town and the endlessly rolling picturesque hills that surrounded it.

Emma was buying wine from the shop in the alleyway behind the square. The middle aged man who kept the shop was friendly and outgoing, and happy to indulge Emma when she tried her Italian. They’d struck up something of a friendship over the course of the last week. This time when she came in, glowing in the doorway of the dark little shop as the setting sun moved behind her, he looked up, and a concerned expression crossed his face.  
Emma walked in brightly,  
“What would you recommend today?”  
“I spoke with my father about you, these strange English woman who ask small questions in many places”  
Emma continued smiling outwardly, but the sunny confidence that she’d walked in with was evaporating.  
He continued  
“Because I like you, I recommend you leave, you have upset people who are better left alone”  
He stooped behind the counter, and rose holding a bottle. He pushed it across the counter. “This wine is not for sale. It will bring you no pleasure, but maybe answers?”.  
Emma picked up the bottle, it looked old, and not at all like a wine bottle. It was small and dusty. Holding it in her hands Emma felt the texture of its surface, it was rough and uneven. The sides were not straight, it looked inexpertly hand made. The pealing label read 1947.  
“This wine comes from the vine yard of the dead. It is planted over a secret, and mostly forgotten graveyard. The fruit never ripen, but but always hang dark red and gleaming.”  
There was a small noise, although neither of them could place it. Emma was starting to feel that they weren’t as alone as she’d first thought. Suddenly she wanted Bertrand’s comforting bulk by her side. The man behind the counter broke off abruptly, perhaps realizing that he’d said too much.  
“Go, and may you find what you’re looking for”

Sitting across the kitchen table that evening, the girls were staring at the bottle. It wasn’t a very appealing prospect, and less so knowing its origin. But, and this was the important thing, it did offer the tantalizing possibility of a clue. Emma broke the silence;  
“He seems like quite a nice man, I don’ think he’d give it to us if it were dangerous”  
Frankie, chin resting on hands, hands resting on table, continued to stare at the bottle.  
Emma got up and fetched two wine glasses, which she pushed into the middle of the table. Frankie sighed and pickup the corkscrew. With the bottle open, she cautiously took a sniff, and made an involuntary face. It was a strong, almost overpowering smell, not exactly bad, but not good either. It was distinctive, and unique, at once smelling like nothing she’d smelt before, and yet something she’d instantly recognise again.   
“Did he say how much to drink? Do we need to get trolleyed, or just pleasantly woosy. What do you think?” Frankie had stopped, bottle half way to the glass.  
“I think its not a big bottle, pour my dear”  
She poured, they sniffed again, they downed the drink in one gulp. Then they sat.   
“Well, that was anticlimactic.”   
They both looked at each other. They made small talk for a bit, read the interblag for a while, stroked Bertrand, and eventually decided to turn in.   
That night Frankie woke over and over, each time in a place she did not recognise, with words she did not understand coming from her mouth. Always there was the smell of fear, the baying of dogs, the crunch of boots the crash of doors braking. There were small sounds too, quiet choked noises of people trying to hide, laboured breathing, the small click of a gun being readied. Sometimes she was fleeing, sometimes she was fighting, always there was pain and loss. She watched as she fled, and slipped and died, and fought and failed and died, and hid and was found and died. She watched as she trusted and was betrayed and died. She was never fast enough, strong enough, stealthy enough, careful enough. Each time she felt the mounting pain and terror as her body failed and teeth and claws and metal ripped through soft breakable flesh. She turned and rolled as was not comfortable. 

The girls woke the following day, looking much the worse for wear. They were exhausted and somewhat hungover. Sitting across the kitchen table, dark eyed and mute, waiting for coffee to breath life into them, it was clear that they’d both had the same experience. Once the dark elixir had worked its magic and a second round was brewing, Frankie spoke up;  
“Well, I guess we learned that Italy has a violent and blood soaked past.” Frankie paused, slurped coffee, and then continued “But I wish I didn’t know it quite so viscerally”   
Emma looked up from the table;  
“Yes, but in between the . . . the . ..”   
“Yes I know” Frankie said as gently as possible.   
Emma gathered herself;   
“If you paid attention to the other people, in the background. . .you could see a lot. I think I know who we’re looking for” She paused again, and then sighed, or at least the family, or maybe the survivors.


	10. Chapter 10

Michael 

The girls are in New York. Emma turned to Frankie   
“But why must we be here? It's the wrong direction - the plan was to head east toward Persia!”  
“I know my dear, but the mid twentieth century was an epic cluster fuck that spread a European diaspora across the globe.”  
They walked in silence down the sidewalk for a few minutes, letting the dog part the crowd for them.   
“Lets enjoy ourselves while we’re here,” Emma said, turning on her radiant smile.   
Frankie turned, catching up Emma’s hand, and saying;   
“Oh yes my dear, let's do just that”, and rapidly lead her off in the direction of Broadway.   
So they did enjoy themselves for a few days, but always whilst exploring the delights of civilisation and correcting the chronically bad English that was found all around them, they were watching for a sign that they might be in the right place. As a few more days passed, a sense of anxiety started to creep over them, time was passing, and New York is a big place. They weren’t even sure they were in the right city, or had the right name, and how did one find a single Jew amongst all these people over half a century later?  
Frantic days and long nights passed agonisingly swiftly.

“I think I’ve found him!” Frankie was looking excited from behind her fourth coffee of the day. Emma paused in her reading. “You have?”   
Frankie cleared the cafe table in front of them with a sweep of her arm, paying no heed to the paraphernalia that scattered on the floor, then, laying down a tourist map, scribbled madly trying to get a pen to work. Having failed twice and run out of pens, she produced a tube of lipstick and started to explain. As she drew an increasing complex web of red lines across New York, she spoke, getting faster and faster. The words came tumbling over themselves to get out as she explained the increasing complex series of interconnections and observations that wove half a century, the city and one man into a single conclusion. Frankie glanced up, looking flushed and bright eyed. The map was a mass of red lines. A lock of hair had come adrift and was wafting in front of her face. Emma was looking concentrated.   
“It’s bit tenuous, don’t you think?”  
“I’m sure of it.”  
There was a thoughtful pause.  
“Do you trust me?”  
“Yes, always and forever”  
“Then let’s go”  
They got up to leave. Emma hesitated, and looked down at the map.   
“Do we need this?”  
“No, it’s in my head, I will not forget”  
Frankie walked off, head held high.  
Emma scrunched up the map and fed it to Bertrand. The dog looked happy, it was a long time since she’d eaten someone's homework.

It took the remainder of the day to find the building they were looking for, and to do a little careful scouting, but come the evening they were walking toward a community centre that, like so many, had once been somewhat grand, but now was looking a little the worse for wear. Frankie was musing;  
“I’ve never actually met a Lindy Hopper, do they dress as vintage pinups all the time, or only for big events do you think?”  
Emma paused to get a small stone out of her shoe and, rather distractedly replied;  
“Concentrate Frankie, dancing is just an excuse to get inside, we don’t have much time.”  
The building had once been an Italian club, and the man they were trying to track down had been something of a figure in that community after he’d emigrated, so, there they were: standing at the back of the social, trying to blend in while scanning around them for signs of someone who hadn’t been there in decades. 

Bringing an enormous dog was turning out to be a mixed blessing, any anxiety over what to say had disappeared into a cloud of dog talk. Even the standard small talk about their funny accents and whitish pallor was lost in favour of Bertrand. Bertrand was loving the attention, all these new people who just wanted to pat, pet and adore her. A great thing about being so big, from Bertrand’s point of view, was all that extra space for so many more hands to pat at once. All this attention meant that, in effect, the girls were now hiding in plain sight. They could say almost anything, and someone would answer them without really thinking. In many cases they maintained a near hypnotic gaze in the direction of the dog, while answering in an excited monotone. Frankie made small excuses and ducked out of the room to do a little exploring. As she left the room she could hear a rapid chant starting; Dog, Dog, Dog, Dog, Dog, Dog, Dog, Dog, Dog, Dog . . . . . . 

Some time later Frankie reappeared, looking conspiratorial. Using the age old techniques of making faces, raising an eyebrow and pointing her head in the right direction, she quietly started signalling Emma out of the room. Emma looked at the expression on her friends face, stopped mid pretzel, apolie-thanked her partner, found her bag and putting an arm around Frankie, she gave her a squeeze. Frankie, keeping her close, led the way into the deserted rest of the building.   
It was like so many other community centres, slightly run down, somewhat stale, filled with “who knows what that does” items and with only the emergency lights to guide them, just a little spooky. Frankie headed down stairs, and down again.   
Emma whispered, not because she thought anyone would hear her, but just because it seemed like the right thing to do. Sometimes you just have to go with the vibe;  
“What did you find?”   
“His final resting place. Its wild, they buried him under a community centre, because he asked for it”  
“So . . .?”  
“So, I don’t know, but I thought you’d like to see” Frankie continued in a stage whisper.  
They came to a large wooden door, it was very stoutly built, and had a large brass handle. It looked like this had at some point been an important room, however now it seemed more used than respected. They turned the handle and slipped inside, pulling the door to behind them. It was pitch black inside. This came as a surprise, and both the girls stopped with a start. After a moments calm reflection the situation made perfect sense; of course it was dark, they were below ground level, at night, in a closed off room, what else would one expect? They both turned and started to feel their way back toward the door, feeling a little silly for not bringing a torch. Groping fingers found a switch and tentatively flipped it. Light blazed forth behind them and, turning, they saw that a pair of spot lights were painting a small pool of red light on a tiny stage. Looking around the room in the reflected gloom, they could see the space had chairs stacked along the walls and a large speaker sitting in one corner, however what set this room apart from so many others like were the poles. Glimmering dimly in the backwash of light were perhaps half a dozen portable pole dancing poles in heavy mounts. As the girls finished looking around and returned their attention to the stage they saw that it too was temporary and built around the base of a seventh pole. Emma murmured, half to herself; “I saw a poster for pole classes in the foyer”. Frankie was staring, but Emma couldn’t make out what at - surely a pole wasn’t that interesting? She drew close and whispered; “What are you looking for?”. Frankie silently took Emma by the shoulder and moved down the length of the room, pointing with her free hand. “Look behind the stage, it's his plaque. ” They walked down the length of the room and knelt at the back of the stage to examine the brass plaque. It was about the size of someone’s head, if their ego had been kept in check, and fairly plain, with just a little scrollwork around the edges. They turned to each other, with a mixer of relief, glee, joy and frustration.   
“We found him, you were right.” Emma breathed.  
“Yes my love, but 42 years too late. He’s dead and there are no heirs listed, not even a wife” Frankie sounded on the verge of tears. 

Emma got to her feet and paused, looking thoughtful; “The secret died with him?”  
Frankie looked up; “We don’t know that, but the trail has gone cold. This was our lead, and it goes no further.”   
Emma stepped off the stage and head back down the room, Frankie resumed a minute inspection of the wall behind the stage. 

The first booming crash startled Frankie so much she fell of the edge of the stage, and looking up she saw Emma striding down the length of the room wearing a pair of knee high, transparent, eight inch heels, moving effortlessly in sync with the opening passage of a metal track that was playing. Approaching the edge of the stage she reached up behind her neck and in one fluid motion slid down the zip on her dress and leapt for the pole in the centre of the stage. She was on the pole and moving before the dress had finish fluttering to the floor. Frankie dived out of the way as a pointed heel came scything passed. The drummer on this track had clearly been enjoying himself, and the beat was so fast that the drum was a single continuous rolling sound. Emma was hitting each and every beat exactly, using smooth well practiced motions. She started working up and out, moving toward the ceiling and extending her whirling heels away from the pole. In among the writhing whirling mass of hair and limbs a cold blue grey aura started to form, driving back the warm red pool of stage light. Glimpses of a naked body, dotted with diamonds of sweat, sparking with a cold hard light could be seen. The tips of Emma’s heels started to leave eerily glowing contrails, which, like after images, faded and flickered back into the dark. Emma’s movements changed, now moving at double time she started to weave the glowing trails into a net that gently floated down forming a bird cage shape of falling, flickering, fading lines. The glowing aura under Emma’s madly tumbling body coalesced, first to a vaguely human form and then, as detail emerged, to an aged Italian Jew. Frankie, who had been watching spellbound from a safe distance as this had unfolded, now she recovered her wits, collected up her jaw from its resting place between her feet, and snatched up a pen and notebook. Grabbing a chair from the wall she hurried in toward the glowing figure in the centre of the cage, being careful to keep her head below Emma’s whirling limbs and her face a safe distance from the floating net of lines. She sat as the figure turned and nodded a greeting to her. Leaning in, Frankie said; “Hello, I’ve got so much to ask you . . .” 

Time had run its course, and so had Frankie’s pen. Her notebook was filled with hastily scrawled lines and her hand ached. Never had she written so much by hand in one sitting. Against expectations, the ghost had been an excellent and mostly genial companion, despite a strong accent. Frankie had learned a great deal, much of which she thought had been lost, at least to the living. So now, as the ghost slowly broke up into a shapeless mist and faded away, she sat back, mind feeling numb and overwhelmed. Slowly, automatically, she got up, pushing the chair back and stretching. She felt a change. There was stillness. Emma had come to a stop, still at the top of the pole, glistering with sweat in a superwoman pose. As the remains of the cage faded out, she slowly crumpled. 

It was Bertrand’s large wet nose ramming into Frankie’s kidney that broke her trance and propelled her forward to catch her falling friend. Diving across the stage she caught the now unconscious Emma, and they both landed in an untidy heap. Cursing the pain in her elbow’s Frankie rolled Emma into the recovery position, and paused to take stock. Emma was out cold and a naked sweaty ball of tangled red hair, but breathing. She had what they’d come for, that was the main thing. Into these thoughts a noise penetrated, a human noise. Frankie looked at her phone, it was morning, the centre would be opening and people would be coming in to do fitness classes and mothers groups and whatever else Americans do on a Sunday morning. They needed to leave before deeply awkward questions were asked. She could hear people talking somewhere in the corridor. 

Frankie tried to move Emma, but unconscious people are extremely hard to shift, and besides, once they were out the door they’d be seen. Frankie stopped and tried to force her tired mind to think. After several frantic minutes of muttering “No, that won’t work” to herself, an idea struck. It wasn’t a good idea, but it was better than nothing. Fishing around the bottom of her bag, her searching fingers closed on a small jar, which she brought out and placed next to Emma on the stage. Then putting her phone on speaker, she dialled while taking the lid off and starting to smear a sequence of arcane characters across Emma’s chest. The phone answered, and Frankie, still holding the jar in one hand and writing with the other interjected;   
“Hey Sree, I really need your help right now. It’s too long to explain, and I don't have time. I know it’s a hassle my lovely and I know we agreed never to do it again, but . . . can you make Emma invisible. Please?”   
The phone paused, then; “You owe me an explanation when you’re back. Does she have the symbols on her?”  
“One moment” Frankie said distractedly.   
“There, done. Now Please? ”  
There was a loud bang, and a strong smell of burnt curry. Emma vanished.   
“Thanks Sree, now I’ve got to run. ”  
“Ok, stay safe!”  
Frankie shoved the phone into her pocket, slipped her bag onto her back and gingerly felt for her ginger friend. After a few moments of careful exploration she found both arms and legs and, stooping, picked Emma up in a firemans lift. It was a deeply disconcerting feeling walking through the foyer and out the door through the thin morning crowd. Frankie had to keep reminding herself that no matter how aware she was of the body on her shoulders, noone else had any idea. Looking more than a little mad, stooped under the weight of a nothing, and followed by Bertrand with Emma’s bag in her mouth, Frankie walked outside and hailed a taxi. The driver glanced at them as they got in, then returned his eye to the road as they pulled out into the traffic. This was New York, invisible friends didn’t even rate on the crazy-o-meter. 

In their hotel room Frankie rolled Emma into bed and pulled the blanket up. Frankie was sure Emma would be ok, once she’d slept her exertions off and become visible again. Frankie headed out, the mixture of emotional extremes, adrenaline and strange hours had left her feeling wired and she couldn’t imagine sleeping. There were loose ends to be tied off before they left, and now was as good a time as any to finish up. Or maybe after breakfast was an even better time to finish up. The smell of cinnamon buns as she walked past a cafe reminded her that she hadn’t eaten in . . . . How many hours was it? Walking in she ordered the big breakfast, and a pot of tea. The girl behind the counter started saying something about it only being free if you finished in under an hour. Frankie pushed a fist full of dollars across the counter and sat down. Twenty-six minutes later the astonished staff watched her disappear into the crowd. 

Later, as the shadows were growing long and the sun's warmth was fading, Frankie returned to the hotel, looking exhausted, but happy. As she walked in she spotted Emma drinking a cup of tea and reading a novel in the lounge. She was looking quite sprightly and completely corporeal. She glanced up, put away the novel and headed for Frankie with a slight limp. “Hello sleepy head, look at you!” Frankie went for a hug, and was a little surprised when Emma shied away.   
“Sorry, everything hurts right now”   
“Well after last night I’m not surprised!”   
They headed for the lift and stepped in. Emma turned conspiratorially to Frankie and popped the top few buttons on her dress, revealing a giant mass of green and purple bruises. Looking Frankie straight in the eye, and using a slightly accusatory tone she said; “You used Patak’s didn’t you”. Frankie had the good sense to look embarrassed.


End file.
